When I hear her laugh, I am happy.
THREE
“Warner?”
“Mr. Warner?”
The invocation of my name in stereo nearly startles me; I absorb this surprise with practiced calm, carefully releasing the dog to the ground. I begin to turn in the direction of the familiar voices, but the liberated creature decides to do nothing with its freedom, instead lifting a paw to my trousers as it whines, yet again, its upturned face imploring me to do something.
Feed it? Pet it?
It barks then, and I spare it a single sharp look, after which it quiets, eyes cast down as its mangy body slumps to the ground, head resting on its paws. The dog settles so close to me its little black snout bumps my boot. I sigh.
“Mr. Warner?” Castle, again.
He and his daughter, Nouria, are staring at me, the latter breaking eye contact only to shoot her father a nearly imperceptible look of frustration.
I glance between them. Clearly, the two still haven’t fully settled the specifics of their roles around here.
“Yes?” I say, even as a feeling of unease blooms in my chest.
Castle and Nouria have come to collect me for a private conversation; I can sense this right away. That my mind reaches for anger in response is irrational—I understand this even as it happens—for they cannot know the fear I experience when I leave Ella behind. I have a sudden need to search for her eyes then, to reach for her hand, and I crush the impulse even as my heart rate climbs, a symptom of the new panic lately born in my body. These reactions began shortly after we returned to the Sanctuary; when, to the soundtrack of horrified screams, Ella’s limp figure was carted off the plane and planted in the medical tent, where she lived and slept for ten of the fourteen days we’ve been back. It has been, in a word—difficult. And now, whenever I can’t see her, my brain tries to convince me she’s dead.
Castle says, “Could we steal you for a brief window? Something urgent has come up, and w—”
Nouria presses pause on this statement with a gentle touch to her father’s forearm. Her smile is forced.
“I’ll need only a few minutes of your time,” she says, glancing briefly at someone—Ella, probably—before meeting my eyes again. “I promise it won’t take long.”
I want to say no.
Instead, I say, “Of course,” and finally compel myself to look at Ella, whose steady gaze I have been avoiding. I smile at her as my brain attempts to override its own instincts, to do the calculus necessary to prove my fears a manifestation of an imaginary threat. Every day that Ella remains alive and well is a victory, a concrete set of numbers to add to a column, all of which make it easier for me to do this math; I’m able to process the panic a bit faster now than I did those first few nights. Still—despite my efforts to keep this from her—I have felt Ella watch me. Worry.
Even now, my smile has not convinced her.
She scrutinizes my eyes as she presses a bouquet of newly acquired tools—screwdrivers?—into Kenji’s arms. She walks over to me and promptly takes my hand and I’m dealt the blow of an emotional eye roll from our audience. It is a miracle, then, that Ella’s love is louder; and I’m so grateful for the reassurance of her touch it pierces me through the chest.
“What’s going on?” she says to Nouria. “Maybe I can help.”
I catch a note of worry from Nouria then, and, impressive: it never touches her features. She grins when she says, “I think you have enough to do today. Warner and I just have some things we need to discuss. Privately.”
She says this last bit in a teasing way, the implication that our discussion might have something to do with the wedding. I stare intently at Nouria, who will not now meet my eyes.
Ella squeezes my hand and I turn to face her.
You okay? she seems to say.
She’s done this a lot lately, speaking to me with her thoughts, her emotions.
For a moment, I can only stare at her. A riot of feeling seems to have fused inside me, fear and joy and love and terror now indistinguishable from one another. I lean down, kiss her gently on the cheek. Her skin is so soft I’m tempted to linger, even as the emotional disgust of our audience ratchets only higher.
I’ve been afraid to touch her lately.
In fact, I’ve done little more than hold her since we fled Oceania. She nearly died on the flight home. She was already weak when we found Emmaline, having spent most of her energy fighting to kill the poisonous program overriding her mind; worse, she’d torn the tech free from her arm, leaving behind a gaping, gruesome wound. She was still bleeding from her ears, her nose, her eyes, and her teeth when she tore through Max’s light, stripping the flesh from her fingers in the process. She was so drained by this point that even with Evie’s reinforcements her body was failing. She landed badly and snapped her femur when she fell loose from Max’s holding chamber, and then used what little strength she had left to first kill her own sister and then set fire to the capital of Oceania.